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There he stood.
Fen'harel.
God of lies and rebellion. Him who tricked all the gods away from the world.
Aster observed the elven god. Covered in blood. Out of breath. Corpses at his feet.
Among them, people he had held close.
Closing his eyes, Aster pressed his lips together. No. He could not cry.
A deep breath.
“For a liberator, you leave a lot of bodies behind.”
Fen'harel's head tilted. He did not turn around yet.
“The Dread Wolf,” Aster called.
The god let him draw closer, circling him slowly.
“He Who Hunts Alone,” he breathed.
A bitter laugh.
“And alone he is.”
Aster stopped, leaving a few feet between them.
“You speak as though you already know me. Perhaps you would extend the same courtesy?” Fen'harel asked.
“No one. Another meaningless pointy-ears,” Aster mumbled. “I just wanted to see the Great Wolf with my own eyes.”
Aster studied him. Fen’harel’s face was covered in bruises, his tears and blood mingling together. Miserable. Pitiful. Yet, with that aura—ancient and powerful.
“You look nothing like a wolf, do you?”
“A brilliant observation,” Fen'harel chuckled.
Aster turned his gaze toward the sky—Fen’harel did not. No more veil. Countless demons and spirits alike. Fights. Cries. Blood. Despair.
“Was it worth it?”
Something flickered across Fen’Harel’s face—gone as quickly as it came. Hesitation? No—regret.
Fen'harel could kill him in a blink. Or so Aster heard. But how could he be afraid, he was doomed all the same. Rather die defying a god.
“If there had been a better path, I would have taken it. But there was none,” Fen'harel answered.
“According to whose judgment?” Aster asked.
Fen'harel pointed his dagger toward him. Aster stared back at him. The Dread Wolf frowned.
“You ask as though understanding were within your reach.”
“I beg, enlighten me.”
Aster stepped forward as confidently as he could. His throat met the blade. Fen'harel did not move it further. A moment passed. And still, none moved. A single drop traced its way along Aster’s neck.
Fen'harel studied him. Closely. Then, he pulled back his weapon.
Whatever might have happened here… never will it happen.
“Cat got your tongue?” Aster faintly smiled. “I thought the legends praised you for your wit.”
How could a mortal be so insolent toward a god–his god? A smirk formed across Fen'harel's lips.
“Legends are prone to… inaccuracy.”
He paused, then approached him.
“And silence is weighing one's words…” Fen'harel whispered. “Not every thought is wise to voice.”
Chuckles. Aster looked aside. He should remember that, if nothing else.
Something in the way Aster laughed… was deeply bewildering to Fen'harel.
Perhaps, he hoped it would reveal itself—if only he watched long enough.
Worse.
Fen’harel felt like his whole world changed.
Absentmindedly toying with his little finger, Aster looked back at him.
“In another world, you'll pay the price of your pride,” he whispered.
A threat. A warning. Maybe both.
Surrounded by chaos, only they remained.
Neither looked away.
For an instant, a shiver.
Solas lingered.
And then—
the world unraveled.